It has been a while since I decided to commit my thoughts to cyber space. This lapse has to do with both laziness and a turn of events that I in no way wanted to document. Some things can be put to the back of our minds, and over time you forget the jagged, searing pain of it all. There will always be a dull ache under decisive mental probing, but at least your mind spares you the full technicolour horror. To write down how your feel is to leave it readily accessible to your psyche forever and some things are best left alone. Or at least best not left to a medium where strangers get to read things that you couldn't quite bring yourself to share with a parent or brother...
But that kind of talk is not, quite frankly, what this blog was ever really about. Here my friends, I am principally concerned with showing off, dressing up, playing out, my motorbikes, my friends, occasionally the odd boy, high days, holidays, champagne, mdma, sunshine and any other damn thing I get my rocks off too. I'm more than bored of the media scaremongering about the collapse of civilization as we know it and I suppose I want to put something out there into the world that is optimistic. You see, despite my waspish, sarcstic exterior, I'm actually a 'glass half full' kind of girl. Obviously, if there is any more wine knocking around I would rather be a 'glass brim full' kind of girl. But you can bet your bottom dollar (who says that any more?) that if I only have half a glass of wine then it's about 6am, the bars are all shut and I've cajoled and fluttered my eyelashes to steal the very last of somebody else's alcohol. And therefore a glass that is half full is infinitely preferable to whatever cigarette-butt laden dregs everybody else is supping on.
Currently my showgirl existance is supposed to be under attack from other things than the faltering economy. Camden council have deemed us burlesquers, 'sex workers'. Which leads me to wonder exactly what is going on in their sex lives? The mere removal of a glove seems to have inflamed their gentle sensibilities to the point that they feel it necessary to demand that the venues in which we ply our wicked trade hold licenses for the terrible sex acts performed on their premises. I love it. If only they could see what I get up to during actual 'sex acts'! I wonder if it's like driving? Do you get points for filth? I suspect I might well be on a total ban by now if so. I am also tickled by the possiblity of speeding tickets, then they'd wait until I'm fucking finished...
Some of my contemporaries have been out marching in burlesque's defense. They demand to be regarded as 'artists' and not strippers. I'd join in, if I could manage to drag myself out of bed for anything other than the offer of somebody buying me breakfast at Claridges. But I'd like to break ranks here and say that if I would not be nailing my colours to the mast of the campaign to save burlesque's reputation. It's all semantics to me. I take my clothes off, you can call me a stripper if you want. It makes no difference to the (spot)light in which I see myself. I protest only to save this lifestyle that I have come to love. And no longer for quite the hedonistic reasons that once took presidence. Here I protest against all accusations that I have gone soft. Last weekend saw three shows, a lesbian warehouse party resplendant with lines of ket and mdma all mashed togther, a bottle of gin, a wheelchair, another show, mad dash to Kentish Town, jagermeister doubles with the boy (new and infinitely lovely), cider, more cider, more cider and more jager. But untrammelled excess is no longer the order of each and every day, hence the title of this blog. I have more than once remarked that I have never yet made it to the end of a tube of red lipstick. Other colours, yes. But never in the history of my wearing red lipstick have I ever manged to get to the end of a tube. This is because red is the lipstick that I wear when I'm going out, when I'm onstage, when I damn well want to be noticed and therefore each and every last tube of red lipstick has been lost or smashed or borrowed by some drunk girl in the toilets of Rockbilly Rebels and never given back. Today was that historic day when I opened up my Mac Russian Red and realised that if I wanted the traditional slash of red lippy on my face for tomorrow's show in Soho, then I was going to have to damn well buy some more. This to my curious little mind means maturity of sorts. My showgirl exisitance has opened up all kinds of avenues since I last wrote. I've travelled, made new friends, been able to create in ways I'd never really considered before. If Camden and other other councils see fit to legislate against 'stripping' then so be it. I suspect that it will weed out the fat girls working out their body issues onstage and leave the real performers, of which I suppose I consider I am one (conceited as I realize that must sound). I have big plans for the rest of this year which will not be eroded by the previously omnipresent tides of alcohol. Tomorrow I'm going to buy another tube of Mac Russian Red. I intend to keep hold of that one until it's empty too.
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